


Haunted

by burusu



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied Murder, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repression, Smoking, talking about past trauma, the usual with these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29537883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burusu/pseuds/burusu
Summary: Alastor comes face to face with the past he's been avoiding for nearly a century.
Relationships: Alastor & Husk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Husk (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> sorry al lmao

It was supposed to be a normal day. At least, that was what Alastor had been expecting. He'd performed his usual routine, danced the same steps he normally did—went to his preferred places, killed a few people out of sheer convenience, checked in on a few of his contractees, the likes. Now he sat in a bar on the outskirts of his territory, minding his own business. 

Well, it appeared that way, at least. Really, he was mentally surveying the crowd (which were avoiding him pretty obviously), trying to find which of them would be the most entertaining to mess with. Unfortunately, most of them seemed they wouldn't be any fun, too similar to every other soul he'd tormented. How dull.

However, there was one miserable bastard pointedly staring at him. He was slovenly, unkempt, and very obviously a drunkard. What could he possibly want from an Overlord such as himself, other than the usual 'help'? Perhaps he was a fool, and would trade his soul for something stupid like riches. 

Before Alastor had a chance to get up, though, the other man approached him—or rather, drunkenly staggered in his direction. 

"Th' fuck're you lookin' at?" He slurred, and Alastor raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I believe you were the one staring at me, my good fellow!" A canned laugh track. Something felt... off. "Can I help you?"

The man stared for a long, awkward amount of time, seemingly too blitzed to even register Alastor's face. 

"...What's yer name?"

Alastor blinked, confused. It wasn't exactly rare that someone didn't know of him, but the question still made him rather uneasy. Nevertheless, he grinned, addressing the drunk.

"Alastor. Pleased to meet you."

"Alastor what?"

That question sent a shock through his systems. This man was familiar. In an awful, horrifying way. No... surely not. It _couldn't_ be him. Not after all these years.

"...Pardon?" He queried, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. Surely he was mistaken, and this was just some poor fool that thought he was someone else. 

"Your last name. What is it?" 

"I don't believe that is any of your business!" Alastor immediately snapped, wanting this conversation to end. But of course, he was in Hell. Things wouldn't end there, would they?

"LeBlanc, right? That's it?"

Alastor didn't hesitate. He jerked the man up by his collar, rising to his full height.

_"How do you know that?"_ He hissed, his grin more of a snarl. Symbols danced around him, and there was a growing static buzz that ceased all conversation in the bar.

The man laughed. 

"Looks like Martha was wrong about you, boy. You grew up to be just like yer daddy."

The words struck Alastor like a physical blow, and his smile fell, replaced with genuine horror. He froze, as if made of ice, bombarded with the flood of memories those two simple sentences brought out of the depths of his mind. He couldn't move. Couldn't summon anything. Couldn't even _breathe_.

The beatings, the smashed bottles on the rickety hardwood floor, the screaming, the violation of both body and mind—it all came crashing into him like a train. All the memories he'd repressed for almost ninety years now overflowed, drowning him in terror and despair. The dam had broken, shattered like his innocence, leaving him shaking with a mix of fear and rage.

It took all his willpower to move, to throw the disgusting, vile monster across the room. He couldn't even muster up the courage to kill him again. No, instead he ran, like a _coward_. Ran from the bar, from that man, from his past. He could feel eyes on him, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He didn't even know where he was running to. All he knew was he had to get away escape _escape ESCAPE THAT BASTARD_ —

By the time he ran out of breath, and took in his surroundings, he'd already instinctively traveled to the one safe haven he had in this shithole—Husker's house. He didn't even know if the cat would be home, but he didn't care. He had to _hide_.

Barely remembering to use his magic, he teleported inside, making sure the door was locked ten times over before he let himself breathe. And those breaths came out ragged, quick. By the time he realized it, he was already hyperventilating. He clutched his arm, digging his claws into both cloth and flesh in an attempt to calm himself, but even pain wasn't helping. And there was movement inside the house.

"...Al?" 

Alastor's head snapped to face the noise, pure terror written all over his features. No smile, no ounce of his usual persona. Just a petrified man, waiting for a blow that would never come.

Immediately Husk moved, getting up from his couch and rushing to Alastor, who backed away on reflex. Husk stopped, simply standing in front of him, worry practically oozing out of the feline.

"What the fuck happened to you?" He asked softly, hovering a hand over the deer, seemingly afraid to touch him. But there was no need. Alastor practically launched himself at Husk, burying his face in the fur of the cat's shoulder and digging his claws into his back.

He clung to his only comfort, and wept. There were no words he could ever possibly say that would express what he was feeling right now, and he couldn't even get out a single sentence as it was. All he could do was sob, and try to focus on the one thing that could bring him back from a hundred years ago—his Husker. The unmistakable tenderness of the clawed hands gently holding him; the strong smell of cheap booze and tobacco; the rough, unbrushed and slightly smelly fur against his face.

There was nothing in existence he'd rather have in this moment more than Husk. At least, nothing he could feasibly grasp. His mother would be great too, but he knew he'd never see her again. She was where she belonged, up in Paradise. He only had his dearest, beloved Husker, and he was okay with that. 

Minutes ticked by, and gradually, the tears and heaving sobs relinquished their grasp on Alastor, leaving behind a crushing numbness. He still shook, but not as violently as before. Husk saw this, and gingerly pushed the man back enough to see his face.

Alastor thought he surely looked like he'd just been struck with the worst tragedy anyone could experience. And perhaps he had, all those decades ago.

"...You look like you could use a cigarette," Husk finally stated, after a moment of silence. Alastor snorted humorlessly at that.

"Or twenty," he agreed, sniffing and wiping at his eyes. His monocle dangled by his shoulder, entirely forgotten.

Husk helped him to his feet, shaky though he was, and lead him to the dirty couch. As soon as they had both sat down, Husk pulled out a pack of cheap cigarettes, and just... handed the entire pack to Alastor. How considerate.

After a moment of struggling to get a single stick with his trembling fingers, he eventually pulled out three and lit one. Then he passed the pack to his companion, who did the same. They sat in silence for a long while, simply letting the nicotine do its job.

When the air was sufficiently smoke-filled, Husk spoke.

"If you don't wanna talk about it, you don't have to. God knows you don't need any more stress." He paused, taking a drag. "But if you're in danger, of any kind, you let me know, okay? I may not be an Overlord, but I can sure kick some ass if I gotta."

Alastor actually laughed at that, weak though it was. Exhaling a puff of smoke, he responded:

"I'm in no danger. Not anymore." Not for a long, long time. "Just simply... some ghosts that came to haunt me. It's no matter. I'll dispose of him once I've regained my bearings."

Husk paused a moment, seeming to consider his words.

"...Him?" He asked, and Alastor stiffened. "Is some jackass bothering you this much?"

Alastor silently pondered whether or not he should even deign such a question with an answer. Yet, eventually, he conceded with a sigh.

"That 'jackass' is my father," he stated quietly, flicking ash onto the couch in mild annoyance before taking a long hit. More silence. Figuring that was a silent cue to explain further, he continued: "I suppose you don't know. He was... a very bad man. Funny coming from me, right?"

He laughed bitterly, once again taking a hit. 

"I'm not going to blame what I became on him, because we both know that I've always had homicidal tendencies. However... I can't say that violence isn't a learned behavior, to some extent. Certainly I was never a good person, but perhaps my environment exacerbated it."

Putting out his cigarette on the nearest solid surface, he lit another.

"I'm sure you've wondered why... what my..." He struggled to say it, as he hated admitting as to what they were. "...Nightmares have been. They... they're memories, Husker."

Husk had one of the saddest expressions Alastor had ever seen him wear. It almost felt like pity, but he knew that Husk wasn't going to judge him in that way. After all, he'd been witness to countless episodes of the feline's own. 

"Al... I know. Could see it from a mile away. I just... didn't wanna pry. Christ knows I don't like people all up in _my_ business." The cat sighed, putting out his own cigarette on the couch—which already had plenty of holes in it—and gently took Alastor's free hand in both of his. His wing shielded the deer from the outside world, protecting him in a sense.

"He ain't gonna hurt ya anymore. Yer safe here." Taking his hat off, he guided Alastor's hand to his head, resting it there. "Now pet me. Always seems to calm ya down."

Alastor chuckled at that, knowing Husk never liked admitting to it being petting. But he did as he was told, and being the blessing that he truly was, Husk started purring. 

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" Alastor asked, regaining half a smile.

"Good question. Ain't I a peach?" Husk shot back, grinning. Alastor again chuckled.

"Maybe a peach pit. They're more furry." 

"Ya got me there."

"And bitter," he added, and Husk snorted.

"I can't even be mad at that. It's true." Then the cat caught Alastor's hand once more, and pressed a soft kiss to his palm. "Feelin' better?"

Alastor's smile softened at the affection, and he leaned on his kitten's shoulder, closing his eyes. He was exhausted.

"Yes, my dearest. Thank you." 

Pressing another small kiss to the radio host's hair, Husk murmured, "Don't mention it."


End file.
